


In the Wake, Turn Left

by argle_fraster



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Blood and Torture, Explicit Language, Graphic Description, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa thinks he will die in the basement prison, so perhaps it's a surprise when he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wake, Turn Left

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in nearly four months and THIS is what happens?! LOL WHY

The first thing he recognizes is the blinding pain. It's the pain, he thinks, that startles him out of the nothingness, so hard and sharp that it takes his breath away, and for a quick moment, he is sure that his lungs will stop. They continue, laboring, to draw in oxygen, and every movement hurts. He tries to focus on something else, and finds another pang of ache in his shoulder and arms. If he diverts his attention to that instead, his body takes over breathing on its own.

After a few seconds, he feels steady enough in his own mind to attempt to decipher the extent of the damage. It's strange, coming back to oneself when there was nothing - he isn't sure how much time he's lost, or what has happened in his mental absence. It's always jarring. He lets his lungs expand and contract several more times before he tries to open his eyes. He expects there to be a light so bright it sears, vision unused to making out shapes anymore, but there is only blackness. He can't decide if that's better or worse.

He isn't sure how long it takes him to fully take stock of things, but every moment is agonizing. His shoulder has been dislocated and left removed, pulled at an angle up and over his head, and the pain he feels down his arm is a result of the manacle binding at his wrist: too tight and chafing the skin raw. He's lying on a filthy mattress too thin to be of any real use, but he suspects he would have to be, for he's fairly certain his left leg has been completely broken. It's the only part he's afraid to really check on, for he can't feel anything past his shin, and there's an acrid bit of fear that comes along with that realization. Perhaps he no longer has anything left there.

He can't deal with that now, so he pushes it to the back of his mind, and tries to adjust his thoughts accordingly.

He pulls on the restraint and finds it tightly fastened to the wall; by the clanking sound, it's iron against stone, and well made. He would have trouble getting free in perfect health, let alone his current state.

Assessing the extent of his body's damage has drained him. Already, the shreds of wakefulness are slipping away, and although Trowa knows that he should stay awake in order to keep his mind sharp, he can't stop himself from sliding back into the nothingness once more.

\--

He wakes once when he hears the muted sound of voices in the corridor, for only a split second, too quick to actually make out anything they are saying, and then a second time of his own accord, when the ache in his shoulder grows too great to be unconscious through. After that, he finds it difficult to sleep through the pain. His arm needs to be pushed back into place, and simply thinking about doing it makes him nearly swoon; he can't do it on his own, not restrained the way he is. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and finds the skin swollen, flecks of drying blood coming away with the motion. The wounds aren't consistent with those he would have received in a mobile suit, which means he wasn't injured in a fight - he can't recall the events leading up to this, or where he would have been. He'd be more worried if that were abnormal, but he is sure that the recollection will drip back slowly as his brain heals itself from being so thoroughly addled.

The problem is his leg. It takes him thirty minutes or so, as close as he can guess without a timepiece or the sun to base it from, to gather the courage to attempt to move it. When he does, the pain is so great that he passes out again, for a minute, and when he comes to once more he is shaking and covered in cold sweat. Fingers trembling against the dirty sheet, he tries to steady himself, but it's a long time coming.

How long he lies there, he doesn't know; time passes in a blur of pain and a growing shadow of despair.

\--

He recalls a fight, a hand-to-hand fight, occurring somewhere near an old mobile doll warehouse facility he'd been tracking. There had been trucks traveling to and from the building lately, and they had been worried that it was being used as part of an underground trafficking ring; it had been unknown if there had still been any suits or usable technology within the compound, but it seemed likely. Now, it seems to be almost certain, for they had not reacted well to finding him inside and attempting to conduct a sweep of their inventory.

The temperature inside his prison - or what he can only assume is such - is starting to drop. His body, already weakened by pain and blood loss, begins to tremble. He knows as long as he is shaking, then his body is fighting the onslaught of hypothermia, and that is as far along the thought process as he can abide traveling.

He has heard no more voices since the first time, and he doesn't know if they are still outside.

There is nothing to do but begin systematically cataloguing what he can of his surroundings, even in the dark. With his good hand, he runs his fingers along the wall next to him; his makeshift bed is in the corner, where the stone walls abut each other, and there are no cracks in the mortar that lead him to believe the structure can be broken. The mattress itself sits on the floor, with no frame, and upon inspection, the floor feels the same as the stones next to his head. Judging by the tang in the air, he guesses that he is below ground - there is a bit of mold that he can smell, from gathering moisture that only occurs in basements.

At the very least, he can run his free hand over the rest of his form to check. There are bruises littering the skin that he can feel are still tender if he pushes slightly, and the knuckles on his good hand are scabbing as if the skin has already re-knitted itself together. He does not go lower than his thigh on the leg he cannot feel. Fear, at this point, would only hinder his chances of staying alive.

After that, there is little else to do. He tries weakly to pull on the chain holding his arm captive, but it accomplishes nothing, and he lets his body melt against the mattress, wondering what hope there is to hold onto.

\--

He thinks that days go by. His body is getting weaker - he's lost too much blood, and his muscles are going to atrophy from the position. His shoulder burns with every breath, but he's more worried about the leg he still cannot feel.

If he is to die here, he wishes that at least someone would know where to look for the remains. Something to send back to Catherine, a piece of him to mourn, so that they could have closure in the wake of everything.

The thought of her life being free of his influence is oddly comforting, and it is what he clings to as his body gradually stops trembling against the cold.

\--

He nearly misses the noises outside, when his head is too dark and foggy to focus. There has been nothing but blackness for as long as he can now remember around him - no sound other than the scraping of his chain against rock or his fingernails against mortar. He tries to jolt his brain into waking, and only succeeds halfway. Outside the cell, there are voices, shuffling, and three muffled gunshots. If he'd been more aware, he could have identified the caliber used.

The door he did not know was on the other side of the cell opens with a harsh grating sound, hinges screeching angrily. There is a flood of light so bright that he squeezes his eyes closed and even still, it burns into his retinas. It hurts. The noise and the light and being awake again, it all hurts. He struggles against the sensation without really knowing why.

"Trowa," he hears, far away and warbled.

He ignores it. They have found his body, which is what he wanted, and if he lets go now, at least they will know what happened to him in the end. It feels strange to stop fighting, but strange in a good way - like there might actually be peace on the other side, at the end of all things.

Then there is an explosion of pain across his face, hard and lightning-fast: a hand that made solid, ringing contact with his cheekbone.

"Trowa!" the voice repeats, and this time, it's clearer, the stinging pain causing his mind to resurface once more, jolted into being. "Open your eyes!"

His tongue is dry and swollen from disuse, and when he opens his mouth, he can't force sound out. He tries to swallow, several times, and even that hurts.

"Fuck you," the voice tells him. There are hands on his arm, the one that hurts, and Trowa can only barely bite back the yelp of pain as the manacle on his wrist is freed. At least the person knows to keep hold of his arm as it's lowered back down, to keep the dislocation from rubbing worse.

"...go," is all Trowa can get past his cracked lips.

"What?" is the angry response. The hands have moved to his waist now, checking for additional injuries.

"Let me go," Trowa whispers.

He receives another slap to the face for that; each time, it jolts his whole form so badly that he can't possibly think about slipping away, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that that is the point. He is being kept awake. If that option is what is necessary, he wonders what he must look like - a broken doll lying on a sheet of fabric, strings cut, waiting to die alone.

"Fuck you," the voice repeats, only this time, it sounds less certain. Scared, maybe, if Trowa had to put a word to it. He still can't open his eyes with the sting of light. His body no longer remembers how to move, and when the other person forces him upright, the pain that shoots from his injured leg is so great that it wrenches a cry from his throat, raw and hoarse. The movement is agony. His mind wavers, threatens to go black again. After the swimming sensation fades, he recognizes that his own fingers are splayed into claws and digging into the other's shoulders.

The agony of being dragged across the ground is more pain than he has ever felt in his life. Each jostle forces him back awake when the pain itself tries to drag him under - each step that pulls his form is the worst experience of his life. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to focus on holding onto the figure keeping him upright, the person hauling him through what seem like endless hallways.

"Stop," is all he can get past his lips, and even this is ignored.

When the jostling anguish finally ends, he finds himself being set down onto something, horizontal - a gurney. His mind identifies this when he can't find focus on anything else. Unable to stop himself, he wrenches his eyes open so that he can look down; there is light now, and it burns, but through the haze he can see his leg... or at least what remains of it. There is only shattered bone and mutilated skin, all of it bathed and soaked in red. He sees only a few seconds of flayed flesh that has congealed together with the gore and muscle before he can't look anymore, can't stop the howl of misery that escapes his lips. He feels light-headed, and grabs onto the sterile sheet of the mat to try and keep himself anchored.

His breath comes in quick, agonized gasps. There will be no saving his limb, and even through the shock he knows this. He's amazed there is anything left at all, but there isn't enough to salvage.

He closes his eyes again, doesn't even look at the faces around him. An oxygen mask is slipped around his face, and it's clean and cool, another shock against his rebelling, aching body. They have laced it with something to sedate him, for which he is both angry and glad.

A hand finds his own, fingers warm.

"You're going to live," the words are nearly growled, more order than plea. "Fuck you, you're going to live."

"Heero," Trowa whispers, but it's lost in the mask, and so is he.

\--

There are days in the hospital, which he only knows about afterwards. Days of reconstruction, of mending the bits that were broken. He has only vague memories of waking up to sterile white walls and blank-faced nurses, and then he is swimming in the cocktail of sedatives they keep him on. He is glad for the rest. He remembers very little about this time.

\--

When his mind is his own again, clear and free of the drugs' influences, he is back in his trailer at the circus. He immediately recognizes the curtains that were standard-issue, the ugly green he never bothered to change, and the way the light filters in through the window panes to paint yellow on the far wall. Somehow, this calms him. For a split second, he thinks that this is what lies beyond life, until he hears the sound of motion in the kitchen, off to the right - the kitchen with the single burner and the small metal sink.

The movement is smooth, with practiced quietness, so Trowa does not need to look over to know who it is. He spends a moment trying to piece together what happened in the time he was unconscious, and then decides that it isn't worth it.

He shifts, and the movement stills, though he knows Heero already knew he was awake.

"How do you feel?" Heero asks.

"Great," Trowa says, and he can't see the other man's face, but he expects there is a wry tugging of a smile there. Moving is not the agony he remembers it being in the cell, though he is careful anyway; his body is unused to being jostled, his muscles slowly recalling how to bend and tighten. Trowa keeps his movements light and slow, and eventually, he has turned himself over to face the interior of the trailer, and the man standing near the middle watching him.

"Are you hungry?" Heero asks. He's holding a plate, as if he had been in the middle of preparing something.

Trowa lets his eyes dart around the room before answering. "I don't know."

This answer seems to satisfy Heero enough, and he goes back to work, leaving Trowa to watch the muscles in his back as he finishes cleaning the plate and fills a pan with water to put on the stovetop. Taking stock, his trailer has not changed much; there is something on the television, muted, which Heero was clearly not ever watching, and things are much as Trowa remembers leaving them.

He did not expect to be back here again.

When he tries to move his injured leg, he is surprised to find that though he can feel nothing past his shin, there is a weight that drags across the sheets as he changes position.

"Prosthetic," Heero says, without turning around, and it stopped being a marvel how he knows what is happening without looking years ago. "They said it will take awhile to get used to, but in time, you should regain your full use of it."

"How long?" is all Trowa asks. Thinking about how the ankle and foot beneath his calf is not actually his is strange and off-putting, and leaves his stomach in odd, twisted knots.

"A few months," Heero replies. "For you? Maybe a week or two."

Trowa _does_ smile at that, the first time the action has come unbidden and natural since he can remember. He continues his slow stretch of movements; his body feels alien to him now, without the pain, and he wants his mind to recall how to control everything.

They are both silent for a long time, until Trowa can hear the water boiling in the pan, and then he ventures, "Why are you here?"

"Where else would I be?" Heero shoots back, and that is the only answer Trowa thinks he will receive.

\--

They gave him crutches to use until he figures out how to use his new appendage - plastic and metal, Heero says, though to Trowa, it's mostly just wrong. Trowa uses them for a single day before abandoning them. If he learns to walk again with the aids, he will be unable to wean himself back off them - there is no point putting a point in the middle that he must overcome to regain control completely.

It doesn't hurt to walk, but it does feel strange not being able to feel the sole of his foot as it touches the ground or his toes that he wants to dig into the dirt. He laces a shoe up over it, and it feels like part of a mannequin that has been attached to his body. His mind, even know, does not believe that his foot is gone.

It takes awhile for the dreams to hit: he'd have thought they would come sooner. Trowa wakes in a cold sweat, terrified, his heart in his throat. He can't force it down, and he can't push away the feeling of pain that is aching up his leg from his prosthetic - phantom limb, he knows, though the clinical knowledge does nothing to actually stem the sensation. He claws at the bedding in terror, gasping aloud only once, and then Heero is there, a shadow across the blankets.

Trowa can't see him, not really. He's back in the cell again, and his entire body is alight with agony.

Heero climbs in the bed with him, jostling the sheets and the blankets around, and slips between. He presses himself flush against Trowa's back, arms circling him; the embrace is tight, so that Trowa's brain switches to the real and not the memories. His breath is hot against the back of Trowa's neck, and Trowa notes, detached, that even Heero's breathing is hitched and quick.

It takes a long time for the terror to fade, and even after, Heero stays where he is. Trowa wonders if the position is for his own benefit, or Heero's.

"I sent you there," Heero whispers, into the dark, when neither of them have been able to go back to sleep, and the guilt dripping from his words is the first real shred of emotion Trowa has seen from him since Heero found him in the cell. "I'm the reason this happened. I sent you in."

"We both knew what might happen," Trowa says.

Heero's arms tighten around Trowa's waist, elbow knocking into his ribs. "Fuck," the other man gasps, cheek pressed against Trowa's shoulder. It's the closest they've ever been, and Trowa can feel Heero's body shaking. "Fuck, it's my fault."

It should probably feel stranger than it does, reaching for Heero's hand and curling it in his own. Their roles reversed now, Trowa feels as if he's the one doing the soothing.

"Trowa," Heero whispers, and it's all self-loathing and hatred aimed inward.

"Don't," Trowa tells him. "Not this time."

"I sent you in," Heero repeats.

There's an ache in the bottom of Trowa's chest that pangs with every pound of his heart. "You got me out."

They stay like that for the rest of the night, and Trowa isn't sure if it's entirely in his head when he feels the ghost of _I'm sorry_ against the back of his neck, words caught in Heero's throat that never quite make it out fully formed.

\--

Catherine comes by to cook, to do the laundry, and doesn't say anything, though Trowa can see the tightness near her eyes and her mouth. He wonders if he is killing her, bit by bit, every time he goes out and only barely comes back. The three of them exist in a sort of limbo that isn't spoken about, and Trowa knows that Heero must still be in contact with the others, with Une, with Po and the Preventers.

Walking feels wrong, but he masters it again. Running is different - the tilt of his plastic ankle, the distribution of weight he must now accommodate for. He spends hours each day practicing, until the movements become natural, and he is exhausted by the end. More than once, he thinks perhaps it all might not be worth it. What use will he be to the organization if he has to relearn how to do such simple things?

Heero relays messages, finally, from the others - words of encouragement and gladness that he is making such a good recovery. He is 22 and already the recipient of such things. It bothers him, but he tries to tune it out.

There are still dreams. He still wakes thinking he can feel the crushed, mangled muscles in his foot.

Heero stays. Trowa can't touch the guilt that surrounds the man, that weaves its way into all their interactions. This, too, bothers him, but on a fundamentally different level. He can't quite put his finger on the source of it, though it throbs.

\--

After he feels comfortable running and walking, Trowa attempts once more the tight-rope. It is an unmitigated disaster, and even though he knew it would be, in the back of his mind, there is still the strong thrum of disappointment there. He tries to swallow down the bile as best he can as he nurses his own bruised pride. He thinks that he can take it in stride, can try again tomorrow; he thinks he can master it again in time.

Heero, however, takes it much worse.

Trowa finds him in the faux kitchen of the trailer, hands gripping the side of the yellowed countertop so tightly that his knuckles have lost all their color.

"Heero," he starts.

"Don't," Heero growls, low and feral in his throat, with so much misery and anger there Trowa can't even begin to touch it.

"This isn't your fault," Trowa tells him.

Heero, trembling visibly in rage, reaches for one of the porcelain plates and throws it to the ground. It breaks with a crash, and Trowa looks at the pieces wondering if his own leg suffered the same way.

"I've ruined you," Heero says, miserable, and his fingers go up to grab at his own hair. "I knew it was dangerous, and I sent you in anyway."

"Stop acting like I didn't have a choice," Trowa snaps.

The other man looks at him, face wild. "Did you? Did you ever, really?"

"And now is the time that you ask that?"

Heero lets out an unhappy bark of a laugh, shoulders hunching over on themselves. "Look at what I do to people. I leave nothing but a trail of broken bodies behind me."

There's a quick leap of ire, fire in the back of his throat, and Trowa crosses the space between them unsure of what exactly he wants to do - he wants to hit Heero, shake him, beat the doubt and guilt from him completely. He's angry at Heero, at himself: at the world, for being what it is. He's furious with his inability to move the way he used to, but it's a low hum, and not something that takes over his entire mind.

He grabs for Heero's head, clenching his hands around the sides of the man's face, brings them close so he can hiss, "I am _not_ broken."

There's a sharp intake of air, whistling between Heero's teeth, and Trowa leans forward the rest of the way to kiss him. He takes - hard and demanding. He's still angry, but this seems to make sense; perhaps this has always been festering between them, over all those years, since the very first time Trowa pieced Heero's body back together in the wake of Wing's self-destruction.

Heero groans, and the sound is lost but the vibrations remain, humming against Trowa's lips. Heero's hands grapple for Trowa's shoulders - needy, searching. He's clinging and Trowa wonders if he's the only thing really holding Heero together anymore. Trowa might have been stitched up and made whole with wire and plastic; the parts of Heero that have been mangled beyond repair are not so easily fixed.

Trowa pushes backwards, gets Heero's back against the counter. "Fuck you," he says, against the corner of Heero's mouth. "And your whole martyr complex."

Heero's hands go to Trowa's chest and shove, _hard_ , and Trowa stumbles over his new limb because he doesn't account for it in time. He ends up falling backwards into the mattress, and then Heero is on him, over him, knees on either side of him and hands already fisted into the excess fabric of Trowa's cotton shirt.

"I've been waiting for this," Heero says, half-whisper, in what might be the most naked and honest thing he's ever said. It's making sense, now, the time after Trowa was rescued. And before that, if he thinks back that far - it's all falling into place.

He reaches up, and finds Heero's shoulders. If he were honest with himself, he might say that he's been waiting for it, too. As it is, he just pulls Heero close to kiss him again.

He pushes Heero's shirt up, over his shoulders, and lets the other man do the same. They are lost somewhere on the ground as Trowa roves his hands over Heero's chest. He runs his hands across and down, grabbing hard with nails he lets sink in before going lower. He can feel Heero hard against him, through the denim of the man's jeans. He wants to take and take and steal everything away, leaving nothing left in the wake of his departure.

Heero drags his teeth across Trowa's bottom lip as Trowa unhooks the button of his jeans and yanks them down. He pushes himself up, lets himself be undressed completely, and does the same with Trowa until they are both bare. Heero's cock is firm, straight and dark, and Trowa moves a hand between them to find it, to slide a finger across the bump of retreated foreskin.

"I want it," Heero groans, arms wrapped around Trowa's shoulders. He is rutting them together, the head of his cock sliding up against Trowa's abdomen. Trowa is aching, he's so hard - he thinks he couldn't have imagined this, except maybe he has. He's not sure anymore about the space between them except to know that there isn't any.

Trowa brings his fingers to his own mouth, slicks two of them with spit, and when he slides a hand around the back of Heero, to find the muscle between the other man's legs, Heero's arms tighten further around Trowa's shoulders as if he's bracing himself.

"Make it hurt," Heero growls. "Fuck, make it hurt."

Trowa starts with one finger, adds another - opening, feeling. Heero's cock smears a bit of wetness near his navel and the other man gasps, sinks his fingers into Trowa's shoulders with impressive force. He isn't sure how far to go, how much to do. Heero makes a noise that causes his own cock to twitch, and _jesus_ , he wants this.

Heero makes the unspoken decision for him. The man wraps his fingers around Trowa's cock and guides it towards him. When he sinks down onto it, he can only get halfway before the sound is wrenched out of his throat, guttural, and he has to pause. His entire form is shaking, though Trowa doesn't know if it's in pain or pleasure. Trowa settles his hands on Heero's hips, and jerks up, completing it. The resulting exclamation is half-moan, half-cry.

He is drowning in it. He can't distinguish the heat of Heero's form, draped over him and clenching, or the sound of the pained keening against his ear. He moves, again and again, digging his prosthetic foot into the mattress to give himself leverage to push up. This, he can do; this he isn't finding it difficult to master. Heero's cries lose the edge of pain and become frenzied and seeking. The man's hands tangle in the short bits of Trowa's hair at the nape of his neck.

"Fuck, fuck," Trowa can hear, whispered punctuations that seem to be forced out with every thrust. "Trowa, fuck, _fuck_ -"

Heero is far more vocal than Trowa would have expected. Maybe it's not something Heero can even control - when Trowa looks at him, tries to focus on something other than the heat and warmth and how close he already is, Heero's eyes are tightly closed, lips parted. They are both so slick with sweat that their skin slides, most friction gone.

Heero's cock is hot when Trowa takes it in his hand once more. He gets a sharp cry for it, a sink of Heero's teeth into the flesh between his shoulder and neck.

"I'm going to come," Heero says, muffled and groaned. "Oh, fuck, I'm going to come-"

Trowa appreciates the warning, because he is, too. He's so close that trying to stop it is causing all of his muscles to tremble on overdrive. Heero moans, and that's it, Trowa is finished, jerking up into the whiteness that hits him square behind the eyes and blanks everything out. It almost _hurts_ , the force of release. He doesn't realize that he's made a noise, that his head has fallen back and bared his throat, until he feels the scrape of Heero's teeth against his Adam's apple and it makes him buck up and forward.

His fingers are still curled around Heero's cock.

"Trowa," Heero says, _begs_ , and Trowa tightens his fingers and pulls up, tries to keep moving even though he knows he is softening within Heero already. He thumbs the head, the slit, and Heero's whole body convulses. Most of it ends up like a sticky web between Trowa's fingers, bits clinging to his stomach.

It takes awhile for Heero to move, to push up with shaking knees; when Trowa slides free, they both gasp.

"What was that?" Trowa asks, with Heero holding himself over him by the headboard, eyes wild and, if Trowa didn't know better, a bit frightened.

"I don't know," Heero replies.

Trowa licks his lips, tastes the remnants of salt there. "Okay," he says.

\--

Trowa doesn't make it across the tight-rope the next day, or the next, or the next. But he keeps trying, and he supposes that's really the important thing.

A week later, Heero comes back with a new set of plates. He'd only broken one, so now they have far too many, and they don't fit in the shelf, but it doesn't seem to matter. Heero fucks Trowa over the side of the couch and Trowa comes on the arm, and worries that the fabric will never totally come clean.

After two weeks, they get a message from Une.

\--

"It's not going to be the same," Heero says, as if Trowa hadn't already thought of this. At least Trowa doesn't really need his leg to pilot - it's all in his fingers, his reactions.

"That's alright," Trowa replies. He's a bit surprised to realize how much he really means it. "It won't be the same, but that doesn't mean it won't work."

Heero's eyes are bright, but his eyebrows are furrowed. "If there is another situation like the last one-" he starts.

"There will be," Trowa cuts him off.

"Trowa," Heero says, flat.

It's a tingle in his arms, of fear, but Trowa blocks it out. "You know there always will be."

Heero's mouth sets into a firm, hard line. "Don't be stupid."

"You, too," Trowa tells him, and smiles.


End file.
